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dolandazeee · 4 years

Note

this was so cute omfg 🥺🥺🥺🥺

Pao can we get a concept/blurb on gray in a long distance relationship 😭❤️

When you stayed three weeks in LA to help your best friend move in and get settled in her new West Hollywood apartment for her new job, you were definitely not expecting to meet anyone new, let alone fall in love.

That much was obvious when you trudged into Whole Foods, exhausted from your day, hungry, in the same t-shirt you’ve been sweating in all day, your hair in a frizzy bun that’s barely stable on your head, and you’re legs and hands still covered in paint after your best friend put you in charge of the accent wall of her living room.

With a singular goal of chicken pesto on wheat, you thanked the sub workers for opening the station back up for you and ran over to the shortest line you could find, adjusting your face mask behind your ear as you looked for that stripe of green tape to guide you where to stand. The line was moving up thankfully as you slipped into the line, meaning you were able to set your bag right on the conveyer belt and await your turn, stomach growling as you got closer to dinner time.

“Uhm, excuse you!” a voice behind you had called. You barely even realized you were being addressed until they tried again, their tone even sharper as they specified, “hey, tie-dye girl? The line’s back here!”

Glancing down at your t-shirt, which was, in fact, tie-dyed, you turned. You blinked at the guy behind you, only slightly distracted by his large stature and the thought of how someone could still look that good behind a green mask that covered his face from his nose down. His eyes shrunk slightly as his cheeks lifted, going from intimidating to sweet in seconds.

You glanced behind him, where an older man with a cart full of groceries was visibly fuming under his mask. “Shit, did I skip?”

“Yeah, it’s fine though,” the guy behind you spoke.

“It’s not fine, there’s people waiting here!” the man behind him bellowed.

You bit your lip, shaking your head. “Sorry, sorry, I’ll just--” when you reached for your sandwich, the guy behind you stepped up, defying all social distancing rules, and stopped you. His arm was toned, tanned, a shiny green Rolex on his wrist.

“It’s fine,” he repeated, loud enough for the angry Kevin behind him to hear him. “she’s with me.”

You looked up at him, with just his deep hazel eyes staring at you pointedly, and the anxiety that had risen in you at whatever disturbance you’d caused subsided. Your own eyes crinkled under your mask. “Thanks,” you said.

He nodded, and then looked over at the cashier when he slid your sandwich over with his won groceries: powdered peanut butter, some avocados, two cartons of oat milk. “I’ll cover you.”

Apparently, the romcom gods were watching over you that day, because it was the start of an era. One sandwich, one asshole, and a pandemic had brought you an unsung hero in the form of Grayson Dolan, who had apparently found you enticing and gorgeous despite you feeling and looking like a mess. Your friends called it the beginning of an era, you just thought it’d be a summer romance.

But that summer romance carried, because when Grayson dropped you off at the airport, there was no way he was going to let you get on that plane without a promise that you'd try.

“Two time zones,” you’d told him.

“I get up early.” He smiled.

“Two years left in undergrad,” you’d told him.

“Then grad school in California.” He smiled.

“If I can get in.”

“You’ll get in.”

“Two million girls around you waiting for you to look their way, and you want the one that lives across the country and won’t be in your zip code for two years?”

He gave you a dazzling smile, and an easy shrug. “Only one for me.”

Grayson didn’t fancy himself a patient man, though. And Ethan saw first hand that absence does, in fact, make the heart grow fonder. Until his brother turned into some sort of sad dog when his owner was away, lighting up as soon as he’d get a call from you, a text from you, any sort of little sign that you were thinking about him.

And to be clear, you thought about him often. Dazed on the opposite side of the country, thinking of your hero in his green mask and his hazel eyes and his warm hands and his white smile. He always seemed to know when to call, almost like he could sense when you were missing him too much, when you craved his voice and his touch, but could only have one. And the nights were the best, even though the sun was still setting for him when you were turning in for the night, but you’d keep those eyes and that smile on your FaceTime as you tried to force your mind to stay awake.

“I love you,” he’d whisper, every night, thousands of miles away. “I miss you.”

“Miss you more,” you’d tell him, half asleep, nose buried in the collar of the sweatshirt he’d sent you, sprayed with his fragrance. “Can’t wait to see you... touch you...”

That earned a raise of his eyebrow, and a sly smirk. “Touch me, huh?”

You hummed, eyes closed, cheeks lifted. “Mhm, get those hands on me...”

“They’re a little torn up right now from my workouts,” he admitted.

“Good.” The way you opened your eyes, and licked your lips, made his heart sore. “the rougher, the better.”

“That count for everything?” his voice darkened, like his eyes, and you groaned wishing you could just reach out and touch his lip when he bit it.

“I’ll make sure to show you next time you’re here,” you promised.

He was on a plane that weekend.

Your relationship thrived on late night FaceTimes, periodic text messages, snapchats, phone calls, and--when your schedules allowed it--trips to each other.

There was nothing like seeing him walk out of those airport gates, his eyes bright, that tongue-in-tooth grin, and his arms so warm, so firm, so tight. With his nose in your hair, and his heart in your ears.

“Two time zones,” he said.

“You can sleep in with me.” You smiled.

“How long we got before you’re sleeping in with me?”

"One more year, baby.”

“Maybe I’m more patient than I think.”

Though his patience faltered. Life got busier, for both of you. Projects got bigger, flights became less. Every relationship hits a stalemate, and yours came when you got into a New York program, but no response from California.

It was hard to cry over FaceTime, for both of you. Helpless, unable to reach out to console each other.

“Can you take three more years being two time zones away?” you asked him.

“It’s an hour drive from my ma’s, babe.”

“You gonna move in with your mom again, Gray?”

“Been meaning to visit her more often.”

“Grayson.”

“I’m patient.”

“You’re not.”

“Been patient this far for you.” He said.

“What if California isn’t my place, Gray?”

There was silence. He ran a hand through his hair, and you just ducked your head further into the collar of the latest hoodie he’d sent you. You had a collection of them by now. He shook his head. “You walked into a Whole Foods in California two years ago, babe. It had to be for something.”

Graduation came, with the Dolans yelling their heads off in the audience with your family as you walked across the stage. Time with Grayson in person became as valuable as gold. Hours spent in bed, making up on lost time, prayers whispered at night that you’d get the call.

He spent half the summer with you, until he had to go home, still no call from California. You dropped him off at the airport, salt on his lips when you kissed him. His eyes were brown when he cried. His cheeks were red. “You’re like a dream,” he told you. “Back to reality. Two timezones away.”

“Two million girls ready for you to let go of me,” you whispered.

His hands were tight on your hips. “Only one for me.”

He went home to Los Angeles without you. You stayed, and prepared for three more years of this, in New York.

You were supposed to head to New York the last week of July. Grayson couldn’t make it, swamped with meetings and other commitments. It was with a heavy heart and a sour mood he headed to Whole Foods to stock up on syrup. Ethan had forgotten them with the last grocery run, and Grayson had flipped his lid when he had a stack of pancakes this morning and no syrup.

He swiped it off the shelf and went right to the express line, his mind on you across the country, his eyes on his phone, thumbing through his schedule to figure out when he could see you next.

The cashier was looking at him weird when he glanced up, and he straightened up. The cashier motioned behind him. “I think you skipped, dude.”

“Shit,” Grayson sighed. “Sorr--” he turned around, and his heart stalled when he saw you standing there, a sandwich hanging in the bag in her hand. Chicken pesto on wheat. Your eyes were glossy, and your smile was big. He blinked. “It’s fine,” you said, smirking as you handed the cashier your sandwich, winking at Grayson. “I’ll cover him.”

#fic rec

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dolandazeee · 4 years

Note

whew this was a wild one so much went on i loved it so much

So like does papo get charged or what oml I'm so ready to read the next part of my favourite telenovela

Grayson Dolan’s always been big for his age, and a hothead.

A passionate, spontaneous empath, he often found himself jumping to the defensive when he didn’t like what was being said. He had a strong moral compass held together by a rotted stubbornness, and an energy that made it hard to control flashes of anger when they’d come.

Sometimes, he felt it. The rage bubbling up under his toes, lifting in this overwhelming heat throughout his body, making his harder to breathe, until it seemed to crack, and he couldn’t think of what happened after that. He’d only truly blacked out once before, and it was during a heated argument with Ethan, where Grayson had found himself in a chokehold and so consumed with frustration and an irrational anger only his twin could put him in, his entire brain had shut off. He’d gone into survival mode, thrusting his elbow back until he was freed from Ethan’s grip, sending his brother to the ground with blood spewing between his fingers and a crooked nose that would eventually lead to a deviated septum surgery when they were both twenty.

He couldn’t even remember the argument, but he remembered coming to and panicking about what he’d done. He remembered the booming lecture he got from his parents once Ethan was home with a reset nose and an ugly bandage.

“You can’t let anger beat you like that,” his father had told him. “You let anger control you like that, and you lose. That’s your brother. You protect your family.”

Grayson, stubborn to the end, could only stare at the ground, his jaw tight, waiting for it to be over so he could be mad at himself in private. Then, he felt a hand on his shoulder, and looked up with hard eyes that softened once he saw the look in his father’s.

“You protect your family, Grayson,” he said again. “And when you feel that anger coming, you breathe. Don’t let it beat you. Take a breath, plant your feet, ground yourself, and stay in your mind.”

Grayson had almost blacked out again during a lacrosse practice in freshman year of high school. Some older guys who didn’t like him and Ethan were trying to sabotage them, throw them off, and when they realized that Grayson and his twin were actually good at the game, they resorted to straight up bullying them. Sneering names thrown their way, tripping them with their sticks, and when one of them barreled into Ethan to interfere his catch hard enough to dislocate his shoulder, Grayson felt it. The numbing rage. He threw down his stick and shoved the kid back with as much force as he could.

“The fuck is wrong with you?” He yelled. The boys just laughed, and it pissed him off so much, with his brother gripping his shoulder and groaning, Grayson clenched his fists and by some miracle, looked off at the bleachers, where his father was standing by them, staring him down.

That’s when Grayson took the deepest breath he could, planted his feet, and shook his head. The boys stared at him, knowing that unless he threw the first punch, they couldn’t instigate further. With a curt “fuck you guys” spit through his teeth, Grayson turned to help his brother to his feet, and caught his father’s small smile and nod when they passed him to head to the locker rooms.

***

Ethan woke up to the same feeling he had deep in his stomach that had him dialing his brother not even two hours ago.

Only this time, Cassie was up too, patting a groggy hand on his chest as they looked over at where there were red and blue lights glowing in the window from down below.

“E,” she said.

Ethan sat up, phone in his hand and dialing Grayson as he hurried over to the window to see if he could catch a glimpse of what was going on. “Call Mari. See if she’s okay.”

Grayson didn’t answer. And Mari was not okay.

Evidently, while Marisol didn’t get a chance to call security, Bran called the cops once Grayson’s fist hit Adams face, and a few other neighbors had already called complaining about noise.

By the time Cassie relayed the message from a hysterical Marisol about the altercation, it was pure panic and adrenaline that carried Ethan up the six flights of stairs that separated his apartment from Marisol’s. He was too late, and instead found Marisol with her head in her hands and her shoulders shaking as she tried to gather enough bearings to even out her breathing.

“Where is he?” He asked her.

“They took him.”

Grayson sat, surprisingly calm in the back of a police cruiser. They hadn’t cuffed him, but they did insist on detaining him, and Adam for the violent disturbance. His hand hurt, and his knee was bouncing on its own accord. The thud of the car door closing echoed under the ringing in his ears. He didn’t feel like himself. He wasn’t himself. His body was in the police car, being driven away from the building, but he was still up on the twelfth floor with Marisol. He gazed up at the building as the car moved, and he really didn’t snap back into his body until they exited the gate.

His hung his head, shoulders slouched. “Shit,” he whispered.

The officer chuckled. “Buddy, you have no idea the kind of shit you just got yourself into.”

Grayson raised an eyebrow. “What?”

“Do you know who you knocked out like that?”

Grayson opened his mouth to paint a colorful picture of the man he’d knocked out, but decided against it. He’d been read Miranda Rights. The officer smirked, much too smug with himself because he knew exactly who he had in the back of his cruiser, and who was newly conscious in his partner’s cruiser groaning and holding a rag to his bloody nose.

“That’s Adam Kane. His daddy’s Jonah Kane. He’s this bigshot music producer.”

Grayson knew who Jonah Kane was. He didn’t say anything though, just stared out the window, his jaw tight.

“He owns the building,” the officer added.

Grayson’s eyes met his in the rearview mirror. His expression was blank, but his eyes flashed with a moment of panic, enough for the officer to notice and get a nice laugh out of it.

Grayson’s fingers flexed. They were sore, his knuckles bloody from where he’d scratched them up. He wondered if he knocked any of Adam’s teeth in. He must have. He deserved it. Grayson could feel the hot flash of anger rising in him again as he thought of how easily Adam had found it to just open Marisol’s door. He tried not to think of what would have happened had he not been there, not to think of how she’d admitted to him that she didn’t feel comfortable leaving the door unlocked, not to think of how they’d spent the last few weeks arguing over her stubbornness in not needing him to protect her, and she’d reached out to him tonight.

Not even an hour ago, he was feeling his daughter move for the first time. Marisol had given him a house key. He couldn’t place what happened after he opened the door, it was a blur. He opened the door, and then suddenly Marisol was screaming, the door was slamming shut, and he was sitting on the couch with Marisol’s hands on his face, tears on her cheeks as she used her voice to coax him out of whatever haze he’d been in.

The police had arrived shortly after that, Adam had regained his consciousness, spewing drunken accusations while Marisol’s door was all but knocked off its hinges with the force they banged their fists against it. Marisol was hyperventilating, but Grayson wasn’t. Which is odd, for a man with asthma who’s been known to lose his temper irrationally.

Instead of standing up, he’d touched Marisols belly. There was no nudge, and it angered him to think that he’d had any part in somehow scaring his little girl into stillness. He looked up at Marisol, and grabbed for her face. “Mariposa,” he said, stern and even. “I need you to breathe, mama.”

Marisol had stared at him, her hand holding his against her cheek, her eyes wide. “What did you do— they’re going to— Grayson—“

“Breathe,” he said again. “You gotta calm down, Mar. Okay? Sit down. I’ll get the door.”

“Grayson—“

He stood then, and brought her mouth to his. He held his hand to his chest, so they could take a deep breath together, and then another. He felt her relax, and kissed her until he set her gently down onto the couch where he’d sat. Her hands were cold as they grabbed his arms, her lip trembling. He ran a hand through her hair, and cradled a hand against her belly. “I need you to breathe.”

He’d felt his eyes on her as he walked to the door, his footsteps hollow in his ears, the entryway to her apartment seeming so much longer. When he opened the door, the officers came pouring in with a bloodied, heated Adam. Grayson couldn’t understand what he was yelling at him, but he did have to duck when he swung a skinny fist at him. Grayson’s anger spiked. He yanked in a breath.

“You see this?” He asked the officer, waving a finger at Adam. “He let himself into my—my—“ Grayson blinked, and shook his head. “He let himself in, didn’t listen when we asked him to leave, he—“

“We’ll take your statement at the station,” the head officer said, uninterested. He nodded at the others to take Grayson and Adam, and Marisol jumped up.

“Please—“ she pleaded. She made a show of holding her belly, curving her back a bit so it’d stick out more. “Please, he was just protecting me— he was protecting his family— he was—“

Grayson’s head snapped up. Their eyes met, and she looked so uncharacteristically terrified, it made it hard to breathe.

“Marisol,” he urged. He resisted for a moment when they grabbed for his arm. The officer threatened to cuff him, making him relax, his eyes on Marisol. “Mari, breathe. And call E, okay? Just call E.”

He sent up a prayer as he was dragged down the hall. It broke his heart to leave her there. To leave them both there.

Now, in the police cruiser, Grayson dug his heels into his shoes, his fingers pressing into the seat under him as he took various deep breaths. He saw Marisol behind his eyelids.

He wished there was music playing. It was too quiet.

***

“Papo, the more you talk to me right now, the easier I’ll mess up.”

Grayson groaned, trying to find Marisol’s hips under all the bubbles. She never knew how much to pour into their baths, which always ended in them searching for one another amid tall clouds of eucalyptus- scented foam. She’d found him that night, and through some seductive witchcraft that he couldn’t figure out, had somehow convinced him to try out some new mascara samples she’d gotten in the mail.

“I don’t know how helpful this is gonna be—“ he winced as the wand brushed through his lower lashes, his eye twitching as he tried to keep it open. Marisol grunted when it laid a dot of black in the corner of his eye, leaning back.

“Grayson.”

“My verdict is that wand sucks.”

“You keep moving!”

“You keep slipping!” He pushed her higher up on his body to prove his point, and she laughed, her hands grabbing for his shoulders for balance. “See?”

“Alright, I think I’ve got it now,” she rubbed her fingers together to smooth out the foam on her hand, and carefully rubbed away with black. It smeared considerably. She pursed her lips to keep from laughing.

Grayson raised his eyebrows. “How do I look?”

“You look…” she shrugged a shoulder at him, and dropped her face into his neck to stifle her snort.

Grayson shook his head, his lips a tight line. “I look ridiculous don’t I?”

“No, no, you look like a raccoon.” She giggled, and when she tried to fix it, it just got worse, making her giggle more.

“Oh, so I look like you after a long day?” He smirked, squeezing her hip. “Or after some sloppy toppy.”

“Shut up!” She gasped, hitting his chest. Her laugh was too contagious, and Marisol loved watching him catch it, his tongue peeking out between his teeth as his lips stretched into a grin that would explode into a laugh. Soon enough, they didn’t even know what they were laughing at, tangled in a mess of each other, bubbles and water.

Grayson’s hands roamed over Marisol’s skin, their laughter dying out slowly as she wrapped her arms around his neck, her soft flesh warm and soft and wet as it pressed against his hard chest. Grayson bumped his nose against hers, his tongue back between his teeth, her favorite grin.

“You’re a cute raccoon,” she said, her lips brushing his. “And you’ve got good lashes. They didn’t need mascara.”

Grayson pulled his head back a few centimeters, eyebrows cocked, making her pout. “So you just put mascara on me to make fun of me?”

Marisol chased his lips with a snicker. “Any chance to make fun of you.”

Grayson’s arms wrapped fully around her, trapping her as he kissed her again, and again, and again. “You’re lucky I love you so much, Mariposa.”

Marisol hummed, nipping her teeth at his top lip, fingers curling around the wet mop of hair on his head. “I guess I am, Papo.”

***

Grayson didn’t think jail would be this cold.

To be fair, he isn’t really in jail, more than just a holding cell at the back of the police station. He’s usually partial to lower temperatures, but he assumes that keeping the room cold keeps detainees intimidated and curled up in the corner.

The tips of his fingers are freezing, and he huffs as he sits on his hands. He bumps his head back against the wall, knees bouncing. It’s so ridiculously quiet, he can hear the watch on his wrist ticking. It’s 3:33 in the morning, which makes him scoff. Probably the worst 3:33 check he’s had.

“Why do you breathe so fucking loud?”

In the connecting cell, on the other side of some bars, Adam sits with his swollen nose and his bloodied shirt. Some paramedics had reset it and taped it up for him before they put him in his own cell to await his fate. His hangover is also settling in early, making him irritable and, apparently, bothered by Grayson’s breathing.

Grayson rolls his eyes, taking another deep breath. If no one’s going to book him, or talk to him, the best thing he can do is meditate in his cell.

“What is up with your nose? You got allergies or something?”

“I’ve got a sinus infection,” Grayson huffs. “right now. Yeah. And allergies. And it’s cold as fuck in here.”

“Can you just be more fucking quiet? I’m trying to sleep.”

Grayson looks at him. “Sleep? You’re trying to sleep right now?”

“It’s three in the fucking morning, man. I’ve got a pounding headache, thanks to you and the right hook from hell.”

Grayson settles back in his seat, shaking his head. After a bit, he opened his eyes, and faced Adam again. “What the fuck were you doing trying to get into her apartment anyway?”

Adam groans loudly, rolling his eyes. “I didn’t think it was gonna be unlocked. I jiggle her door like every night. S’a joke.”

“Harassing a pregnant woman by making her feel unsafe in her home is a joke?”

“She makes me feel unsafe in my home. Never know when security, or the cops are gonna come barging in telling us to break up our parties. She kills all the vibes.” Adam shakes his head. “I looked her up, you know. She was crazy. Big party girl, before the— well— you know,” he snickers as he makes a round gesture with his hand over his middle. Adam looks at Grayson. “Yo, so it’s your baby, right? The fuck aren’t y’all living together?”

Grayson stares at him, trying to process the level of ignorance and stupidity and audacity that can live in one person. He shakes his head. “S’not important,” he says.

“I know y’all are fucking. I hear you all the time.”

Grayson’s face scrunches up. “Dude—“

“I hear her too, when she’s alone. She’s a loud one. I’ll tell you that—“

Grayson jumps to his feet so quick, Adam flinches and nearly falls off the bench he was laying on. He reaches easy hands out to Grayson, shoulders curving into himself.

“I’m kidding, holy fuck, relax.”

“Don’t talk about her like that. Don’t talk about her at all.”

Adam stares at him. Grayson pinches his eyes, wishing the light wasn’t so harsh, hissing at the migraine he’s got. He focuses on his breathing, like he’s been taught, like he hopes Marisol is, willing the rage of being in this situation, with this idiot, to dial back. He sits back down with a groan.

When Adam laughs, Grayson needs to tweak his neck to keep himself from losing his mind.

“Holy shit, you’ve got it bad.”

“Trust me, dude, you don’t know anything.”

“What’s there to figure out?” Adam chuckles. “I read your Hollywood Entertainer rundown. You dated, you broke up, she got pregnant, you dated— someone else? Which still doesn’t make too much sense. And now— what? You’re in jail because of her.”

“I’m in jail because of you, asshole.”

“You know, she says your name. When she’s alone.”

Grayson looks at him. Adam’s smirking wide, his arms crossed tight over his chest, dried blood on his collar. Grayson clenches his jaw, closing his eyes again as he leans his head back. “I don’t know what you’re trying to do here, but you’re pissing me off.”

“Then, it’s working,” Adam says. “I’m just bored. And entertained. I’ve never met a bigger simp.”

“I’m no—“ Grayson exhales. “Can you just do me a favor, and shut up? This night has been long enough. I don’t know how much longer we’re going to be in here.”

“You should probably be more worried for what’ll happen when my dad does get here,” Adam sighs dramatically. “Get ready to write a lot of letters to your baby.”

Grayson’s on his feet again, and there’s the slightest bit of satisfaction with the way that no matter how brave he gets with his words on the other side of the cell, any sort of physical reaction from Grayson has Adam flinching and staggering as far away from him as he can. The door buzzes open, and both detainees stand and straighten up as the sheriff begins to unlock the cell doors.

Adam’s smiling, but Grayson keeps his poker face on. He has no idea what’s happening.

“Your bother’s outside with your girlfriend,” the sheriff tells him. Grayson’s posture drops, but the pit in his stomach doesn’t go away when the sheriff looks at Adam and adds, “your father has arrived as well.”

“Great,” Adam says. He’s let out first, and turns to smirk at Grayson or make some sort of joke, but his face falls when Grayson is also let out. It’s almost warmer on the free side of the bars. “Wait— what are—“

With the door still open, Grayson can see the familiar dark head of hair and swell that is Marisol, and it sends him hurrying out to her before he can figure out what the next legal implications can be. No one stops him, thankfully, allowing him to call her name as he closes the space between them. Ethan looks over too, a pushing a relieved breath from his mouth.

“Grayson!” Marisol gasps. She throws her arms around his neck, her face going right to his neck and she’s been doing a good job of staying calm, but the amount of relief that washes over her to have him standing in front of her is enough to make her sob.

Grayson inhales her scent, pulling her as close as he can. There’s a slight bump between them, where her belly is pressed up against his torso, that makes him tear up at any sort of prospect of losing this. He feels his brother’s hand on his shoulder, and keeps one arm tight around Marisol as he reaches out for his twin, clapping him on the arm, fingers digging into him to hold onto him.

After a few minutes of embrace, Marisol steps back, her eyes searching his face. “Are you okay? Did they hurt you? Did you get booked? Are you good?”

“I’m fine,” he sighs. “Just some unwanted time with your friendly neighbor.”

Speaking of friendly neighbor, Adam is still surprised Grayson isn’t still in his cell. In the corner of the room, adjusting his hat on his head, Jonah Kane makes his way over. He’s got hard eyes on his son, who shuts up immediately and flocks to his side. “Why aren’t we arresting—“

The way Jonah shoves his son into the nearest wall has everyone in the room looking up with a gasp. The sheriff and a few standby police officers turn around for plausible deniability. Ethan steps in front of Grayson, Marisol, and Cassie, who’s got a hand on his shoulder.

“Are you out of your mind?” Jonah hisses at Adam, who just gapes at him and hold his shoulder that hit the wall a bit too hard. “You’re barely 21, drunk, brought in for disorderly conduct? Breaking and entering?”

“I didn’t break into anything! My nose is fucking broken, Dad! He—“

“Shut the fuck up. Shut up, you don’t talk. I’ve dealt with enough trying to clean up your fucking mess.” He turns to the Dolans, Marisol and Cassie, who are all just huddled together trying to figure out what’s going on. There’s still no handcuffs or bookings in sight for Grayson. Fixing a smile on his face, Jonah sticks his hand out to shake Grayson’s. Grayson just looks down at his hand, and then up at him.

“Why?” is all Grayson says.

Jonah tucks his hand into his pocket, clearing his throat. “You boys seem like pretty good businessmen, right?”

Ethan and Grayson look at each other. Their glares and sharp jaws are identical. They’re a lot bigger and wider than Jonah and Adam, but Jonah doesn’t seem very intimidated. Old Hollywood money, a successful music producer, and the man that just paid off the cops to make sure Grayson and Adam didn’t get booked, Jonah knows his leverage. He nods. “I’ve seen what you guys have done with your fragrance company. And other projects. Good heads on your shoulders. Pretty good public image, even with,” he nods his head towards Marisol with a questioning eyebrow.

Marisol grits her teeth. Grayson squeezes her hand.

“Considering recent events, I don’t think either one of us want news of this getting to the press, right?” Jonah zones in on Grayson, that sly smile on his face.

Grayson’s lip twitches up into a flash of a snarl. He’s got one hand in Marisol’s and the other one clenched into a fist, bumping against Ethan’s. It’s enough to ground him. His voice is low when she says, “What don’t we want in the press? Your drunk son harassing the mother of my child? Or the way his pussy ass fell with one punch?”

Adam steps forward, but Jonah elbows him back. Marisol’s got big eyes staring out over Grayson’s shoulder, hiding her little smirk in his arm.

Jonah sighs. “We both know the pull we have here right now, Grayson. I’ve been generous. You haven’t been booked or arrested. No one knows we’re here. I haven’t pressed charges, even though my son’s nose is broken.”

“Wouldn’t he have to be arrested too?” Ethan asks. “For trespassing? Or for just— being drunk? How old is he?”

Jonah glances at him. He continues to only address Grayson. “You’re a businessman, Grayson, right?”

Grayson just glares at him. “What are you trying to do here?”

“We can do one of two things. Option 1: we press charges against you. For battery. You and Adam get arrested, yes, but I’ve got… a really good legal team that’ll make sure that you don’t meet your daughter until she’s about three years old—“

“Hijo de to puta madre—“ Marisol sneers. Cassie holds her back when she tries to lash out at the man, and Grayson grits his teeth. Ethan mirrors him.

“Or option 2:” Jonah continues. “We don’t press charges. We all go home. This all stays here between us, and—“ he glances over at Marisol, who’s still whispering obscenities under her breath in two languages. “she leaves the premises.”

“Excuse me?” Marisol says.

“Your lease is up in August. We end it now. You leave by next Friday. We all win.”

“Is this guy for real?” Cassie scoffs. Ethan swallows and looks over at Grayson, who’s still just glaring at Jonah and Adam.

“You’re evicting me?”

“Those are my options.”

“What if I get arrested, but then win?” Grayson says. “For protecting my family. Self defense.”

Jonah smirks. “I promise you, son, you’ll lose. It’s not as cute of a story as you think.”

“You’d be surprised how much sympathy I can garner,” Grayson says.

“Alright, so you’re ready to be put into handcuffs, huh? Arrested?”

Grayson huffs, and finally looks at Ethan. Ethan just cocks an eyebrow, looking at him pointedly. Grayson then looks over at Marisol and Cassie. Marisol grits her teeth, her fingers splaying out over her bump at the slight stab of pain that shoots through her lower abdomen. Grayson’s eyebrows soften. He worries about his mariposa, the environment he’s creating by putting Marisol under so much stress by being an idiot.

He remembers her dream. He thinks of those peaches, much so, he can almost smell them. Clenching his jaw, he turns back to Jonah.

“No charges.” He says simply.

***

After the 30 day restraining order against her father was lifted, and the divorce was finalized, Rodolfo Herrera was given visitation rights to his daughters every Wednesday, with agreement to take them every other weekend, and alternating holidays. That first weekend, he welcomed Marisol and Ileana into a small studio he’d rented out in Kendall, not to far from the diner he liked to take them to, a movie theater close by to entertain them.

The apartment was small, stuffy, and smelled of wet laundry that Rodolfo had thrown into a corner because his dryer had broken. Marisol set her box down of items she’d gathered to keep at his house with a huff and looked around. A sofa, a coffee table, a bed, and a kitchen.

“You said we’d have our own rooms,” she told her father.

Rodolfo just scoffed. “You’re just like your mother. Picky.”

He offered the girls his bed, and took to sleeping on the sofa he’d won in the divorce. The loveseat, because Alegria refused to give him the full set. Ileana got hungry, but all he had to offer them was vanilla ice cream and peaches.

Any other kid could have been happy to have a parent give them ice cream for dinner.

It was the first and last time Marisol ate peaches. She got such a severe stomach ache, she never touched them again.

***

“Alright, that’s the last of them.” Grayson huffs as he sets down the final box from the moving truck.

It’s a pretty hot day in LA in September, the sun pouring in through the glass doors in the master bedroom that used to belong to Ethan, and now belongs to the mother-to-be that stands by it, her hand pressed up against her lower back as she peeks out at her view. She squints, chewing her lip as she looks over at Grayson. “I’m going to need some curtains in here.”

Grayson nods. “I’ll put them up tonight after yoga. “

“Today’s the lactation class.”

“Fuck, right, sorry.” He runs a hand through his hair. “Got mixed up. But I’ll put them up after.”

“We have to register after.”

“So, I’ll put them up tomorrow morning.”

“I’ve got the campaign photoshoot in the morning.”

“I’ll put it up while you’re there.”

“Fine.”

Grayson sighs. This is how it’s been for the past few weeks. With their baby growing every day, Grayson has been pretty much tiptoeing around Marisol, trying to keep her as comfortable and stress-free as he could while they packed everything up to move her into his house. It seemed her feelings towards Grayson’s agreement with Jonah Kane were as imbalanced as her hormones: relieved that her baby daddy wouldn’t be going to literal prison to leave her alone to raise a child, but livid at having to leave her home. It made for a lot of ups and downs. Relieved sex where she sighed and whimpered about how she was so scared she’d lose him for good, and heated discussions about how Grayson was hindering her independence because— as she insisted— “we still aren’t anything.”

It made Grayson dizzy.

In one of the peak arguments, Marisol had turned herself into a full conspiracy theorist, accusing Grayson of being in cahoots with Adam to get into a fight with him so Jonah could evict her and she’d have no other option than to “run into your arms and beg you to let me live with you. Always the fucking hero, huh?”

Grayson had only scoffed. “You know how delusional you sound right now?”

‘Tell me it’s far fetched!”

“It’s far fetched! It’s so fucking far fetched! Why would I risk getting arrested?”

“I just think it’s funny how E was dropping hints about me moving in with you and not even two weeks later you’re getting me evicted from my house!”

“What, you wanna look for somewhere else to stay, Mar? Be my fuckin’ guest! How long’s that gonna take, with your picky ass? Huh?”

Marisol had shoved him back in a flash of anger. “Don’t fucking call me picky, I’m not fucking picky, I’m just not an impulsive idiot like you!”

“I’ll own up to being impulsive, Marisol, but would you have rather me go to fucking prison for three years? And still be living next to that fucking asshole? Actually, I’m pretty sure he would’ve found a way to evict you anyway! Or worse!”

“Or worse?” Marisol scoffed. “What’s worse than having to live with you?”

Silence met her when she let that slip. Grayson didn’t have anything to say, his energy shot. Marisol’s anger began to subside. Her pregnancy and stress had her mood swings all over the place, and with how easy it was for Grayson to rile her up, she was often a slave to words she didn’t necessarily mean. She sighed, reaching out for him, but Grayson just stepped out of her grasp, lifting a box up to take out to the truck.

“Guess one of us ended up going to prison after all.” He muttered on his way out.

Now, in the porsche on the way to Marisol’s lactation class, which had been suggested to her by one of her fellow moms in her prenatal yoga class, Grayson glances over to see Marisol’s brows pulled together and her eyes squinting as she answered some emails.

“You forget your glasses at home again?”

“Yeah,” she sighs, rubbing her eye. “Hate those fucking things. I always lose them,” she exhales. “How am I supposed to keep track of everything, and a baby, when I can’t even keep my glasses in check?”

Grayson smiles. With his elbow up on the window, steady fingers on the wheel, he reaches out to gently take Marisol’s phone away from her, letting it fall into the cupholder between them before grabbing onto her thigh. “I don’t think how you treat your glasses is going to translate into how you treat the baby.”

Marisol holds onto his arm, laying back against the headrest. “Coming down to the wire. Campaign shoots with Rudy, Danny’s getting me some final samples, we’re putting together our PR lists…”

Grayson swallows, mostly at the mention of Danny. “It’s gonna be great, Mar. Just try to take it easy.”

“I wish I could talk about my business without you telling me to take it easy,” Marisol exhales. “I don’t tell you to take it easy when you talk about the new Wakeheart collection.”

“Well, it’s not like I have a human inside me that’s affected by my stress levels,” Grayson says cooly.

Marisol rolls her eyes, but then reaches for her phone again. “Oh, your mom called this morning about the baby shower. I bought her tickets already, so you don’t have to worry about it.”

Grayson blinks. “Tickets? We have a baby shower date?”

“Did you not open the email from my mom?”

“Your mom loves emailing my work email, which is pretty full.”

“Well, it’s not like you answer her calls.”

“The last time I called her, she called me a bunch of names in Spanish I don’t want to google translate.”

“Well, the baby shower is at the end of the month.”

“Oh.”

“At the biltmore.”

“The Bilt—“

“In Miami.”

Grayson looks at her, braking a bit too hard when he pulled into the plaza of the lactation class. He yanks a hand through his hair. “Marisol— when… when did we agree on Miami for the baby shower?”

“Two weeks ago.”

She isn’t necessarily wrong. Knowing he’d give her some pushback about where her entire family was pestering her about her baby shower, Marisol had decided to time the discussion to when he was out in his builder’s shop. He’d finally gotten those measurements right for the crib, and between the construction tearing down the podcast studio for the nursery, and Grayson out in his shop building, it was enough to keep him only half listening when she’d poked her head in.

“Papo,” she sang. “should we have the baby shower with my family?”

Not hearing her completely, blowing off sawdust, he’d only glanced over his shoulder to see her on her phone. “Mar— don’t want you near all this sawdust, babe.”

“But the babyshower?”

“Yeah, mama— just get a mask on if you’re gonna be out here, please?”

Marisol nodded, stepping half out of the shop with a little lip bite. “Okay, so I’m going to tell Ily to go ahead with the booking for the Biltmore?”

“Uh huh, Mar, get a mask on. Come on.”

“Alright, yes sir.”

Grayson went back to building, and Marisol gave the go ahead.

Grayson groans. “You finessed me.”

“What’s wrong with Miami? My family’s there.”

“My family’s in Jersey, Mar.”

“What, do planes not exist?”

“I thought we said we were gonna keep LA as a neutral ground.”

“When did we say that?”

That was an even more brief conversation, where Marisol was showering and complaining when Grayson came in to brush his teeth.

“What the fuck, Gray?”

“Relax, contractors turned off the water in my room, just gotta brush my teeth.”

“I’m naked!”

“Right, cuz that’s a new view for me.”

Marisol scoffed, but continued washing out her hair while Grayson brushed, thoughtful. Finally, after he spit, he said, “So, I was thinking… since we’ve got family on the north and south part of the east coast, LA could be neutral. So one family doesn’t feel more important than the other, you know?”

Marisol had been rinsing out her hair and only caught the last part of it, and nodded. “Yeah!”

That’s it.

“you know, this is our problem,” Grayson says now. “We haven’t actually sat down to talk about any of this.”

“Any of what?”

“Anything, Mar. We’re having a baby. THat’s a whole lot of change.”

“You’re telling me.”

“And it’s a lot of balance. We just need like… boundaries. And understandings. And communication.”

Marisol ponders for a moment. Grayson just stares at her. Finally, she sighs. “Maybe you’re right.”

Grayson nods. He bites his lip. “Can I…” he glances down. She’s playing with his fingers. Platonically, of course. “Can I like, make you dinner? At home. Just us, and we’ll sit and go through everything and come up with a game plan. Everything’s on the table.”

“Everything?” Marisol says.

Grayson cocks his head, nodding slowly. “Uh, yeah. Yeah, everything.”

“When?”

“Tomorrow night?”

“Can we have pasta?”

“Whatever you want.”

“Okay,” she smiles, and before Grayson turns the car off, she’s setting his hand on her bump. It’s a lot bigger now, at 25 weeks. And their little mariposa is a lot more active.

Grayson smiles as he feels the little thuds against his hand. “Is she excited for lactation class or our date?”

Marisol looks at him. Grayson flushes, looking out the window as if he’s not already parked and there’s cars coming. She chuckles.

“I think it might be the date.”

#papo

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